


a dream that keeps you from sleeping

by mondaynight



Category: Legacies (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Hope Mikaelson - Second Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:14:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25517110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaynight/pseuds/mondaynight
Summary: You're excited for your history class, it's one of the only courses you look forward to. You're already familiar with the lesson, so you don't pay any attention. Instead, you use the time for other things. Like to stare at Josie Saltzman, the headmaster's daughter.Sometimes, you think that she stares at you, too. You hope it isn't something you've just imagined. She moves to her seat, passing by you for a second. It’s a second that you slow down in your head, and you're disappointed when her eyes don’t meet your own. You quickly learn that forever melts into a second when you can’t afford the time.
Relationships: Hope Mikaelson/Josie Saltzman
Comments: 7
Kudos: 112





	a dream that keeps you from sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> hope before season 1

You wake up early, which is routine and normal. You always wake up this early, you have since you were seven.

  
  


But today, today is different. At least, it’s supposed to be. It’s your birthday. It should feel different. But it doesn’t.

  
  


You can’t remember a time where your birthday has been important. You can’t even remember your past birthdays. They’re old and forgotten memories—something you can’t truly reach even if you think about it for so long.

  
  


It’s not there—not accessible. You start to doubt if you have ever celebrated a birthday before in the past to begin with. Perhaps your parents were the only ones holding those memories together.

  
  


Maybe, just maybe, your memories of everything _before_ them are gone. If anything, you can only think of life after your parents. This horrible thing, your forgetfulness, started after they both died. If it’s a grieving thing, you still have a hard time moving on.

  
  


It’s your mind protecting you. The trauma of it all will surely make you insane. You’re in disbelief at how it hasn’t already. You wonder how much more of this—pain—you have to continue to go through. You’ve forgotten what an inch of happiness feels like. Laughter is never the same. Things don’t interest you anymore.

  
  


You get up out of your bed, trying not to dwell on it.

  
  


You do anyway.

  
  


It’s weird, you think. People are supposed to remember their past birthdays. Birthdays are supposed to be important. You’re supposed to remember what you did that certain day, as well as what presents you opened and who was there, standing next to you or in five feet of distance from you.

  
  


You’re supposed to have home movies, you’re supposed to have birthday cards that you dig through every now and then. But you can’t remember ever going back and finding them.

  
  


It’s so hard. You also wonder if other people, too, have trouble remembering. Forgetfulness has to be contagious, it has to be passed on. It can’t be just you.

  
  


But—

  
  


What if it is just you?

  
  


The realization makes something strange and heavy pull at you suddenly. You dress up for class, trying to ignore the heavy way your feet slide into your shoes, trying to ignore the way your arms drag down, also heavy.

  
  


Your bones ache each time you move, and getting to the bathroom is a harder task that you thought it’d be. You wonder if it’s your body telling you that today isn’t normal, because you don’t want to believe today would be normal.

  
  


No.

  
  


You want to feel special.

  
  


It’s a desire—a painful one. It’s a melody singing in the small compression of your chest, it’s the prayer held underneath your hands. You only realize this desire now, as you get ready to leave.

  
  


You pick up your bag, but there’s a feeling in your chest you can’t dismiss. You think you’ve gotten used to this feeling, but right now it’s worse.

  
  


It feels so, so much worse.

  
  


You can’t tell if it’s because you thought today, your birthday, would be different. You’re a fool for expecting someone to walk in and sing you happy birthday (you sigh at hoping it would be that certain brunette who smiles so happily and sadly at the same time—it intrigues you like no other).

  
  


You were also a fool when you thought to look at your phone—there were absolutely no messages or calls. No birthday texts to scroll through, no feelings of being loved and special to hold on to. You thought you’d at least get something from your family. But there are no messages from Freya or anyone else.

  
  


You don’t know why you even got a phone. Alaric had gifted it to you, but, in this moment, it only serves as a reminder. A reminder that you don’t have friends. The times Josie Saltzman talked to you nicely don’t really count—sometimes you think she just feels bad for you. The times Alaric forced his other blonde daughter to converse with you don’t count either.

  
  


It’s a reminder that you’ll be alone and it’s solely due to your own nature.

  
  


You don’t talk to anyone. You can rarely speak to people. Sometimes, words only flow out of your mouth because the feeling of being alone for so long gets tough to deal with.

  
  


But, a part of you doesn’t want friends. A part of you is okay to not have anyone to talk to. You’re the only one who can protect yourself. You think you get that belief from your father—who always could never trust anyone, not even his own family.

  
  


But today, on your birthday, you decide that you hate that part of yourself. It’s so fucking lonely. You wonder if your father also had the same trouble.

  
  


It hurts so much.

  
  


You think that this pain that you’re feeling isn’t physical, it isn’t truly hurting. You’re imagining it. Much like you do with everything. But it feels so real. You can feel a familiar ache as you breathe, you can feel a hand press down against your chest, threatening every last breath to come out of your mouth.

  
  


A lot of people talk about you, make rumors about you. You hear all of it, and sometimes those people don’t lower their voices, as if they want you to hear it.

  
  


They know you can hear them—your supernatural abilities can afford as much. But they don’t care.

  
  


The students around you can’t help it. And as time goes by, you start to believe the things they say about you.

  
  


Even if you know they’re such a stretch. You hear the same words and phrases so much, that they are now echoes of your own thoughts. They say you’re being dramatic. That you want attention for being yourself.

  
  


It doesn’t truly hurt you. You know better. But it doesn’t stop the echo.

  
  


Now, as you open the door to your own room—the room you share with no one—it’s hard to ignore the pain.

  
  


You can’t even describe it. You just know it hurts.

  
  


You can’t do anything about it, though. You put yourself here. You’re in this position, and as much as you hate to think about it, you _allow_ yourself to stay in this position.

  
  


You never do anything about it. Sometimes, you think it will be easy to go up to someone and talk to them. But words never come to you, and your body stays still as ever. You think you’re paralyzed all the time, that it’s your brain telling you that you shouldn’t associate with others.

  
  


But it’s wrong. You need to do more. You can’t fault other people.

  
  


Your stomach obnoxiously growls at you, frowning out of hunger. But your sadness—or whatever this horrible, burning pain is—outweighs the pit in your stomach, and you head straight to class.

  
  


You don’t need a birthday breakfast. You’ll just go to the kitchen and sneak a granola bar later.

  
  


You wander down the hallway, ignoring the stares you’re met with right away. You wonder if they know that it’s your birthday. Someone throws you a smile—someone you don’t know—and for a second you think you’re special.

  
  


But then the person frowns, and you realize that they were smiling at someone behind you. They lean into a hug, and you flush in embarrassment as the student in front of you throws you a weird look. What were you thinking?

  
  


The frown that appears on your face is completely involuntary, but it’s also weird.

  
  


Usually, you’re able to deceive people. You’re able to hold your emotions in, you’re able to remain stoic.

  
  


You swallow down the frown, and as it bites the inside of your neck, you almost ache to cry out because of the pain. It feels like swallowing down ice cubes, but with no break in between, and they’re forced down your throat. You choke and choke and choke.

  
  


You feel forgotten. For a second, you’re upset for a different reason. You think you’ve disappointed your parents. They were the life of the party, no matter how _evil_ your dad was thought out to be.

  
  


They knew everybody, and everyone knew them. Now?

  
  


You’re a shadow, hiding in plain sight but lingering in the darkness. You should’ve carried on your father’s legacy—throwing the biggest of balls, living out the liveliness of parties.

  
  


Maybe you need to move on from this school. Maybe it’s holding you back. Maybe you just need to leave. But something is stopping you—a something you won’t name.

  
  


Would everything be different? If your parents never sacrificed themselves?

  
  


You turn right, heading to History. The hallway is emptier in this direction. You’ve learned to take this route, just so it won’t be as awkward for you. Just so you won’t bump into as many people.

  
  


You’ve come to like the quietness in this section of the school.

  
  


You also always keep your head up in the hallways. You might be lonely, but you fear nothing. You’re not one of those students. You’re a tribrid. The only of your kind. Your muscles burn with energy, and you’re upset at not being able to workout and spar with Alaric this morning.

  
  


Your skin feels slippery, your muscles feel betrayed.

  
  


He told you yesterday that he wouldn’t be able to make it, but he said after school he’d have time to fit you in his schedule. You think it’s weird, because he usually cancels completely and never reschedules the time.

  
  


But it only stays on your mind for a second, before disappearing altogether as you throw the door to your class open. Accidentally, it hits the wall with a loud sound, and the few students in the classroom turn to look at you.

  
  


There’s only a small number of students in the room. The late bell hasn’t rung, and there is still a few minutes before the first bell to signify the start of class rings.

  
  


You’re excited for this class. It’s one of the only courses you look forward to. It isn’t because of the subject and it definitely isn’t because of the teacher.

  
  


You’re already familiar with the lesson, so you don’t pay any attention. Your dad taught you all about it. Also at an early age. He told you that education—knowledge—is power. That you have to be prepared for every single moment of the day. A second of time means everything. A second—a fact—could be an advantage.

  
  


But at the Salvatore Boarding School, you have to learn the States history and supernatural history. You’re already well-educated, so instead, you find time to do other things.

  
  


Like to stare at Josie Saltzman, the headmaster’s daughter. She’s in this class, along with her sister Lizzie. Sometimes, you think that she stares at you, too. There’s quite a past between you two—you hope it isn’t something you’ve imagined.

  
  


You hope desperately it isn’t something you’ve made up in your head. That’s happened to you before.

  
  


You hope it isn’t suicide when your heart jumps to hers—falling, falling, falling. She sits so far away from you, you think the fall will be crushing.

  
  


You prepare yourself every time, but death never comes.

  
  


You start to think that you’re okay, and this little crush you have on her will surely fade. It’s just a crush.

  
  


That’s all. These feelings you have for her will go away, they won’t last forever. Your mind hopes so, but a part of your heart loves to imagine the possibilities.

  
  


They’re endless. Powerful. You breathe the air—and choose to live—just to think of what could happen between you two. Your crush on the siphoner has been developing for years, on and off. You think a distraction will do you good, but you can’t even begin to think about anyone else.

  
  


No one is even as deserving to occupy the space in your head. No one is as special. You hope that you’re this special to someone—and if that someone is the siphoner, well, you try your best not to linger on that.

  
  


The bell rings—pulling you out of your thoughts—and you realize that she isn’t here. She’s late, or never coming. You don’t know.

  
  


It’s odd. You can’t remember a single time where she’s ever been late. It half ruins your day. This part of your morning—history class—is something you always look forward to. You tap your fingers on your desk, waiting for the sun to rush into class. Your feet rhythmically hit the floor, hoping for a sweet surprise of the girl’s arrival.

  
  


And it sucks that she isn’t here. You hope she’ll come soon. Ten minutes later, you start to hope that class will end soon. You just want to go back to your room. You keep misleading yourself into thinking today will be more. That something will happen.

  
  


Everyday is starting to feel the same.

  
  


You think to just ditch the rest of your classes. If anyone asks—no one will—you’ll just say you don’t feel well. Your room will provide you comfort. You can watch movies and listen to music.

  
  


You don’t have the courage to get up and do anything after all, though. You just wait and wait.

  
  


You want to be able to look at her, you want to be able to have a slight chance that she just might look your way as well. It’s insane. But you can’t help but want it. Those little moments—the glances—are all you live for now.

  
  


Sometimes, when Alaric asks you for something, for help, you’ll also get excited.

  
  


But you start to think it’s only that. Your purpose is just to help. You are the only one of your kind, anyway. You can’t think of anything else that makes you happy. You try and you try, but your thoughts are repetitive—

  
  


Josie Saltzman.

  
  


You can’t even remember when it got this bad—your crush—you just know that one day, it’s all you started to think about.

  
  


You think it’s because of how nice Josie is to you. It surprises you—how one can be so kind. You’ve never known such compassion. She talks to you after class sometimes, talking to you about the lesson or some pencil you dropped.

  
  


You do that a lot—drop pencils. It isn’t on purpose or anything. You just lose your concentration. She somehow is always the one to pick them up. It doesn’t make sense to you because she sits a few desks away.

  
  


But when you start to think about it, she’s nice to everybody. That’s what you like about her. She always has something kind to say.

  
  


What you feel for her makes you nervous, but you know a lot of other people feel this way. About other people. So it doesn’t make you upset, it doesn’t make you fearful. This is an emotion—if you can even call it that—that many others have to live through.

  
  


So, that knowledge makes you feel better.

  
  


The teacher finally starts the lesson, talking about some war, but you can’t focus. You wonder where Josie is. You see her sister a few seats in front of you. Your heart starts to pound with worry, and after a few painful beats, you learn to take the pain.

  
  


You can’t do anything else about it. It’s laughable, really. How your mind always seems to head towards the worst direction, thinking the most dangerous possibility.

  
  


It’s an issue of yours, one that’s developed since your parents have passed away. You have an issue with people being gone. You’re dealing with it, though.

  
  


You watch Lizzie’s expression. She doesn’t seem to mind Josie’s absence, and you have this strong feeling she knows what Josie is doing or where Josie is. You stop thinking about it altogether, relief flooding back into your system easily.

  
  


You feel protective over the girls—well, Josie—and you think it’s because of your connection to Alaric. He’s always there for you, so you have to be there for him and his family.

  
  


It’s a rule.

  
  


A silent promise.

  
  


Sometimes, you think he doesn’t care enough for them. That he should be better, but you never talk to him about it. You don’t think it's your place. And you’d never hear the end of it from Lizzie.

  
  


That girl talks shit to you like it’s nothing. Relentless motherfucker.

  
  


In the distance, with your supernatural hearing, you hear feet tapping the hallway floor hurriedly. It draws your attention as it gets closer and all of a sudden the door swings open, Josie in its wake.

  
  


A redness paints her cheeks, and you see her face as if through water. For some odd reason, you can’t see clearly and you wonder if the pounding of your heart is distracting your other senses.The brown-eyed girl inhales a deep breath and then apologizes quickly, sort of out of breath, “I’m so sorry!”

  
  


The class quiets immediately, her voice gentle but loud. It resounds throughout the room, and the teacher looks up at her with a frownish-smile. You can’t quite interpret it.

  
  


It’s funny, you think. How serious she’s taking being late. You instantly find it endearing. If you’re late, you don’t care and just take the detention or warning. Here Josie is, almost fighting for her life.

  
  


You distinctly wonder if she has a perfect attendance record or something. She continues to mumble out a handful of apologies and your ears fold to the tune of her voice, stretch in her direction, and you single her voice out from the rest.

  
  


She makes her way over to the teacher’s desk, talking to him quietly. It starts to get harder to hear what she’s saying and you try to focus more. You end up not hearing a single word, but you see that her hand is touching the desk—her fingers glow red.

  
  


You wonder if she’s siphoning magic to do a spell, but then you blink, missing everything. Her fingers return to their normal color.

  
  


The teacher excuses her late absence, something you can understand easily. Josie Saltzman is a teacher’s pet after all.

  
  


She moves to her seat, passing by you for a second. It’s a second that you slow down in your head, and you're disappointed when her eyes don’t meet your own. You quickly learn that forever melts into a second when you can’t afford the time.

  
  


But class passes more slowly—which you love—and you try not to look her way. You’re drawn to her, anyhow, and you notice her appearance. She looks different somehow, dressed up in a classic schoolgirl outfit. Her skirt is short, almost revealing, and her white button-up is rolled up to her elbows.

  
  


You like this look.

  
  


You finally look at her face and realize her eyes are on you. You don’t know what you were thinking—looking for so long. Foolish. You freeze, feeling caught. Your breath hitches. Time stands still. There’s a blush on your neck and you feel yourself fluster up to the point of no return. Her lips are wet, her water bottle in her hand.

  
  


Her features move so naturally, she’s fit for Earth.

  
  


Your eyes can’t move away from it. They seem stuck on her own. Her eyes are bright today, withdrawn all the same. You take a breath you didn’t know you needed—when had you stopped breathing?—urgently feeling the need to pull away.

  
  


Meeting her eyes feels like a burn and now you’re too hot, almost on fire. 

  
  


You try to remain impassive, try to act like you weren’t just caught staring. Your eyes stay straight ahead, looking at the whiteboard but seeing nothing but warmth.

  
  


Your hands hit the cold desk and you pull yourself back to the moment. For the remainder of class, you don’t look her way again.

  
  


You don’t feel like you deserve to. You don’t feel like you’re special enough for her.

  
  


Even today.

  
  


After history, your day passes by more quickly. It’s something you want but don’t want at the same time. You want today to end, but you desperately never want the sun to set.

  
  


You’re thinly cut into slices, and one slice is still holding on to the thought that you can be special, as if a birthday can make a person as such. One day, that’s all.

  
  


You don’t know where this longing comes from. You think it’s probably because of the other 364 days of the year that you don’t enjoy.

  
  


You head to the library, wanting to have time to think for yourself and finish your work. Alaric had asked for some research earlier, so you think you can do it now. There’s time. You also have a school project with Lizzie, but she said she’ll start on it first so you think you can procrastinate.

  
  


Even if you do some work, she will probably credit everything to herself so you debate on whether you’re actually going to do anything. Whatever. Back to the research.

  
  


You send Alaric a text, but he doesn’t respond. He usually responds in minutes. He’s probably busy, and then you remember you haven’t seen him all day. It makes you grow anxious. Is there a problem with the school?

  
  


You pause. He would’ve told you about it, so you stop your worrying. The school’s fine. You’re fine. You crack open a book, finding it interesting. After about thirty pages, you take it back to your room, deciding to be more comfortable.

  
  


You love to read books. It’s one of your favorite things to do. You even have your own library in your room. It is filled with stolen books, but Alaric doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he’s only added to it.

  
  


There’s really no returning system at the Salvatore Boarding School. You just have to get it and then eventually give it back—but with you there’s none of the last part.

  
  


Some of the rules don’t apply to you. It’s just always been that way. You jog some notes down—something you do with _every_ book—and then put it in a folder to show Alaric later.

  
  


He had told you what he wanted you to find out, almost like a book report. You get on your bed, reading thirty or so more pages until you hear a knock at the door. You don’t hear it at first, because you weren’t expecting it.

  
  


You only hear it after the fourth time, because now it’s loud and almost pounding. It’s hard _not_ to hear it. You step closer and closer to the door, asking, “Who is it?”

  
  


You don’t know why you ask, though. As soon as you get to the door you can smell who. It’s that familiar fruity scent. You smell it whenever you get within a close enough distance of the girl.

  
  


It fills up your nostrils. Too much at one time. It’s intoxicating and you wonder why you like it so much. Is it your immune system? Is it your wolf? You don’t know. All you _do_ know is that whatever it is makes you crazy.

  
  


It bends your will, and in a second you’re opening the door. You’ve never felt an attraction so controlling before. Your legs are suddenly not your own, not your arms nor your actions.

  
  


You hate it. But all the same, it makes you able. It gives you the courage to swing the door open. She smiles at you, excited for some unknown reason. Maybe it’s the fact that you even opened the door in the first place.

  
  


Her smile makes your skin crawl with giddiness, and you look up at her expectantly, trying to ignore the silly butterflies that hit the walls of your stomach back and forth. You wait.

  
  


And wait.

  
  


She doesn’t talk for a full ten seconds and then:

  
  


“Oh!” She apologizes, as if caught in the moment. You’re glad she doesn’t have supernatural hearing. Your heart is being too obvious. Too complacent with Josie. “I, uh, wanted to talk to you.”

  
  


She’s nervous, and her voice wavers. Warning lights go off in your head, and you try your best to ignore it. You try your best not to get nervous, too. What would she want to talk about?

  
  


She moves past you, opening the door more, and going straight into your room. Shit. Your room is fucking messy. You close the door behind her, leaning against it so you don’t unexpectedly faint.

  
  


Reminder:

  
  


Your legs aren’t your own.

  
  


“Sure,” you say, watching her pace back and forth. You and her have never talked in here before. Not seriously. Her and Lizzie have been in here, of course, but not for friendly conversations.

  
  


She plays with her hands, making you nervous. You forget it’s your birthday. All you want to know is what she’s thinking. All you’re basking in is the fact that she’s here. In front of you.

  
  


Wanting to talk to you.

  
  


You don’t show how you feel. This comes easy to you. You thought it’d be different with her and maybe it is. But right now, you’re glad that you can keep your impassivity.

  
  


You don’t like to be so vulnerable. Your mother taught you differently, but you never truly learned. You’re stuck in your own ways.

  
  


“Is something wrong?” You ask, keeping your distance away from her. You even walk over to the other side of the room. It’s extra, but space is better for control. You don’t want to show her how much you really care about her.

  
  


Your features might reveal something. You might be caught off-guard. You might react.

  
  


You can’t remember when _not reacting_ became so important to you. It’s a bad habit. It’s a bad thing. You wonder if you’ll ever change.

  
  


She ignores you, a lazy smile on her face.

  
  


Her fingers dance around your room—touching your dresser, a painting on your wall, the comforter of your bed. She stops at the painting again, a curious tone in her voice, “You did this?”

  
  


“Yes,” you whisper, words jumbled in your throat. You want to say more, explain more, but nothing else falls from your lips. You’re disappointed in yourself and the feeling lingers like a tattoo.

  
  


She stares at it for a little while, and you almost forget that she came in for a reason. Or so she said. You want to ask her again, but you remain patient. You cherish the time you have with her, trying your hardest not to think about the idea that she might be gone again in a minute.

  
  


You savor the miracle of being able to watch her so openly. You forget to breathe every so often, not daring to fixate on anything else.

  
  


She sits on your bed and it reminds you of every other time you’ve talked to her. She’s always been direct, and at times she knows no boundaries. You admire it. She’s the exact opposite of you, and sometimes you think it makes you stronger. That it inspires you.

  
  


Her scent infects your room and you hope the smell stays forever.

  
  


“Is something wrong?” You repeat, wanting to know if she’s okay. There’s nothing to indicate as such, but her silence makes you confused. Usually, she has a lot more to say. Occasionally, she’ll talk to you about anything. If she sees you outside of class, she’ll smile. Sometimes, if you smile back, she’ll come up to you and start a conversation.

  
  


They’re always brief, though, and you always want more. Much, much more.

  
  


You’ve asked this question about three times now and she answers you like it’s the first time you’ve questioned her.

  
  


“No, no,” she says this time, hurriedly, like she doesn’t want you to worry. She glances at her phone, and you don’t miss it. She’s actually been glancing at her phone ever since she’s come in. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. What’s going on?

  
  


She realizes you’ve seen her, so she tries to distract you.

  
  


“Your room is so big.”

  
  


Yes, you nod.

  
  


It’s big. So lonely.

  
  


“Does it ever get...empty? Do you ever feel...” You smile at her words, how she chooses so blatantly to ignore the word _lonely_. She trails off, as if the word is a bad one. It makes you think about how you’ve never heard her curse before.

  
  


“No,” you lie, not wanting to make her upset. She gets upset easily, you’ve learned. She has a lot of emotions, all the time, and you find it’s probably because of how much she cares for people. 

  
  


You think she sees right through you, because her features don’t calm and her forehead wrinkles, a line of anxiety creasing her skin.

  
  


It troubles you because you get away with it all the time—lying—so why is this instance any different?

  
  


Her phone beeps and she gets up from your bed, that same excited smile on her face. Something rises in your blood and the way it fills you, you think it’s fear. But it isn’t.

  
  


It’s a buoyant feeling, nothing dull. It’s brought about whenever she talks, whenever she smiles, whenever she glances your way. You don’t think to name it. Not right now, not when she pulls your hand and says, “Follow me.”

  
  


You miss the contact almost immediately. You can’t remember the last time you’ve touched someone—the last time someone has touched you.

  
  


Her hand only slides against you the one time and you don’t respond to her touch. You regret it the second her hand falls from yours, the second she realizes she might have pushed too much.

  
  


But she didn’t. You enjoyed it, more than she’ll ever know. More than you’ll ever voice.

  
  


So you follow her, feeling anxious.

  
  


Today is different. It has to be. The thought has been on your mind since this morning, presenting itself to you in different ways, in different moments.

  
  


You’re suspicious now more than ever—a part of you hopes it has something to do with your birthday. When you get to the door of your room, she forgets something, “Wait!”

  
  


She pulls something out of her pocket. It’s a blindfold, you recognize instantly.

  
  


You shake your head at her, just about giggle. Just about crack a smile. “Sorry, but no.”

  
  


There’s no way in hell. Now you know that she’s probably surprising you, doing something for your birthday. It’s funny, because she hasn’t said the words yet: _Happy Birthday_.

  
  


Nothing’s official.

  
  


You crack just as she cracks. You smile together, and when she laughs you hear it like your favorite song. It’s everything to you.

  
  


“You have to!” She begs you, holding the pale blindfold up once more. You shake your head again, watching as her smile grows bigger and bigger.

  
  


She’s the moon after the sunset. Calming your darkness, lighting up your world.

  
  


You think that this crush you have on her is starting to become too much of a secret to keep, these feelings you feel are too much. They seem to magnify every second you spend with her, making it harder to keep in.

  
  


You’re glad you’re so used to keeping things in. It makes it easier to protect it—your secret.

  
  


“I’m not doing that,” you tell her once again, playfully. She finally stops, and throws the blindfold on your bed, leaving it there. She crosses her arms, feigning some sort of annoyance. She isn’t able to carry it out so well. She grins in a second.

  
  


“Fine, come on. We’re going to be late,” Josie speaks, signaling for you to follow her again. You think she might grab your hand again, but she only passes by you. She throws the door open and you follow behind her.

  
  


“Late for what?” You say, curious with no subtlety. You don’t push it, wanting to be surprised. You think this is the first time you’ve ever felt this way. Special.

  
  


She doesn’t answer you, only smirking. You ignore the way her lips tease you, how they mercilessly play with you—a taunt of fire that burns your eyes to ashes.

  
  


You slow down every now and then, scared. You don’t know what to expect, you’re just nervous.

  
  


She takes you to the dining hall, a small room where the Salvatore Boarding School holds important dinners and small parties.

  
  


Right as her hand touches the knob, she looks back at you. She casts a glance down at you, gentle and sincere, “Don’t be nervous.”

  
  


It eases your worries right away. She opens the door, and you hear loud shouting all at once. It’s so loud that your sensitive ears ring achingly, “Surprise!”

  
  


At once, you notice several different people. Several different _familiar_ people.

  
  


Rebekah sits on a chair, looking up at you excitedly. Her eyes light up like they always do—full of adventure and love for her family. She’s always been loyal. She starts to talk, but you can’t make out her accent in the room full of people.

  
Everyone’s talking at once. It makes your head spin, and your heart swoons.

  
  


Freya and Keelin stand together, hands interconnected. Marcel brings you into a hug and your heart jumps in your throat, a scratchy feeling crawling up your neck. Your throat is suddenly dry, and you find yourself swallowing to no use. You think a tear might fall from your eyes, you think there is some wetness there. It’s pure joy.

  
  


You think you’re numb, you’ve felt that way for some time. But now, in front of the rest of your family, you feel everything.

  
  


Kol is next, murmuring something witty into your ear. You shove him, and he laughs full-heartedly—that same hearty laugh that you know like the mark on your shoulder.

  
  


Davina grabs your hand, genuine like she always is. You always have loved the way she carries herself. She’s treated you with kindness every time you’ve talked together. She’s been there for you, time and time again. You think back to your past conversations with her.

  
  


She’s sweet and though you haven’t seen her in quite some time, she greets you like the two of you have talked just yesterday. It warms you like nothing you’ve ever known.

  
  


For a second, you forget your grief at this surprise. You forget the trauma—the sacrifices of your family members. You forget the people that _aren’t_ there. You sigh, embracing each person longer than a moment. It’s what you need.

  
  


When they hold on, you think it’s what they _need_ , too. Family is everything for the Mikaelsons. 

  
  


The last person you hug is Alaric, thanking him. He most likely set this up. His scent engulfs you and his hug reminds you of your own father’s. You think you only make the connection because of how much Alaric has cared for you over the years.

  
  


Lizzie and you simply high-five, awkwardness engulfing you two. Lizzie gags when you touch hands but she still mumbles, “Happy birthday loser.” 

  
  


Inevitably, you wonder where her sister is.

  
  


Josie stands on the other side of the room, talking to Davina. She’s already looking at you when your eyes finally settle in her direction. You wonder if that’s what her and Davina are talking about—you.

  
  


You also wonder if it’d be too much to hug her, too. You’ve already hugged everyone else. But you know now it’s too late, the moment has passed.

  
  


You get into a conversation with your aunt Freya. You talk about school, spells, and books. You learn about her own experiences, and she listens to you when it’s your turn to talk.

  
  


It makes you nervous when you see Alaric and Marcel talking, but you know they’re being civil for you. Rebekah is keeping the civility, standing next to Marcel with a hand on his shoulder.

  
  


Some things never change.

  
  


The sadness you woke up with earlier is now long gone, replaced with the contentment that comes from being with family and friends. The dullness in your bones is absent. There’s a vividness to you, running deep within you, as far as it could get.

  
  


It knows it won’t last for so long.

  
  


They surprise you with a cake. You sit down at the table, everyone surrounding you. Alaric puts candles on it, but Josie is the one that lights them up with the tips of her fingers. You memorize the scene in front of you, hoping you won’t forget next year. On your next birthday.

  
  


You don’t think you could.

  
  


How you feel is such a change from this morning that you’re in disbelief. You suddenly think you’re in a dream, but then again you’re too wide awake to sleep. You blink and blink.

  
  


This isn’t a dream.

  
  


You think you’ve probably slipped into some fantasy, some imagination that your mind has created. Your imagination has always been a carrier of your desires, you never fail to run wild.

  
  


Right before you blow out your candles, Josie whispers next to you, “Make a wish.”

  
  


A flower blooms in your chest, unbidden and left in the concrete of your rib-cage.

  
  


She smiles at you—bright as the moon—something real and easy. You tear your eyes away from her after a long moment, realizing that Marcel is recording and that probably won’t look so good on camera.

  
  


_I wish this never ends_ , you think, but your throat goes thick and your lips stay sealed. Maybe that’s for the best. Josie’s eyes on your own feel like a thousand wishes come true already.

  
  


The nighttime comes soon, sooner than you’d like. You hate the brevity of a day, you hate the brevity of _this_ day. Earlier, you had wanted the day to end but now you don’t want the sun to come back up.

  
  


The goodbyes come quick, everyone off to bed. Your family is staying for a week, and Alaric has allowed them the courtesy of staying at the school, providing them beds upstairs.

  
  


You help clean up the dining room, while everyone else gets ready for bed. It reminds you of when you were younger. It feels like an old memory that’s happening again. Josie joins you, helping to clean off the table.

  
  


A silence surrounds the both of you, and in the distance you hear Lizzie and Alaric arguing in the kitchen. You tune them out, trying not to drop and break the plates. You don’t want to make a fool out of yourself in front of Josie, who is starting to hum a song softly next to you.

  
  


You can’t tell what she’s singing, but you don’t care to truly know. Her voice is good and you’ve heard it before. Specifically last year, at the talent show. You wonder if this year your school will have another one just so you can hear her voice again.

  
  


You get distracted by the softness of her voice, it’s so low that you can barely hear it. You stop organizing the plates for a second, wanting to listen more. She notices, and the song stops.

  
  


She stops.

  
  


She passes you a clean plate and you reach for it, taking it from her hand. Josie eyes you for a second, holding a look you can’t decipher. It scares you. Most of the time, you can read her like a book. Like your favorite book.

  
  


You choose this moment to thank her, not knowing when you’ll get another chance.

  
  


“Thank you,” you say, disrupting the silence. She wipes the dark-wooden table with a slightly damp towel, and you decide to busy yourself, too.

  
  


She nods slowly, her bottom lip swollen. It seems as though she’s been biting on it this whole time, worrying it in between her lips. You noticed it a few minutes ago, and you notice it again now.

  
  


The towel in her hand drops to the table, so suddenly it almost scares you. Your eyes meet hers—for the hundredth time today—and after experiencing it for so many times, you have one single thought.

  
  


You don’t just want to meet her eye. You don’t just want to stand idly by, your hands reaching and plucking the air piece for piece. You don’t want to be a friend, you don’t want to just talk.

  
  


There’s more between you two. There has to be. You don’t think you can accept less. Not when a fire explodes in your chest every time she glances your way. Not when she’s looking at you like _this_ , emotion in her irises and a breath out of reach.

  
  


She breathes, “Happy birthday, Hope.”

  
  


You haven’t heard your own name form from her lips in so long. It sounds foreign, but you sound _wanted_. You sound _special_.

  
  


You try not to shiver when she talks, and your mouth moves to form its own words but Alaric comes in, interrupting you two.

  
  


“Get to bed you guys. It’s late. I’ll finish cleaning up,” he says and it’s a heavy echo in your ear. He sounds far away, all but under water. Josie smiles and heads out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

  
  


You look up at Alaric, thanking him for the day again. You go to your room, carrying the cards and small presents that your family members have left for you.

  
  


You place them on your bed, taking a shower quickly. You slip into your pajamas. You head to your bed, but something in the corner of your eye catches your attention.

  
  


There’s something on your desk. It’s a black envelope, which is weird. You think you’ve never seen a black envelope before. It has your name on it, and you open it.

  
  


The first thing that falls from it is a note and there’s a small box also inside.

  
  


You choose to read the note, opening it and seeing who it’s from. Your eyes gloss over Josie’s name, her cute little scribbled writing accompanying the paper.

  
  


You smile, your teeth on perfect display.

  
  


_I hope you have a special day. -Josie_

  
  


You open the small box inside the envelope. It’s a silver bracelet, carrying three different charms—the letter M (you easily guess for Mikaelson), a wolf paw, and a human hand.

  
  


A lowercase J is engraved on the inside of the bracelet, and you try not to romanticize the gesture. You’ve been doing that all day today, and it’s easy to lead yourself on. You know others who have been led on.

  
  


But you don’t think that’s the case. No. You know it isn’t.

  
  


You decide then and there, you’ll repay her on her own birthday. It’s coming up in two months, so you might get her jewelry, too. You’ve always thought she looks pretty in necklaces. You’ve even been eyeing a certain one for her.

  
  


For the past few weeks, you’ve been entirely too scared to even think about buying it for her. It was hard when you had no sliver of hope. You didn’t want to make things awkward. It’s weird.

  
  


But today, your fear died the second you opened up the envelope.

  
So, yes, you think.

  
  


You’ll get Josie Saltzman a necklace—a necklace for her birthday.


End file.
